Pain
by kcarolj65
Summary: A look inside Spike's mind, in the alley during Dead Things.


He loves her fists. Loves any part of her she'll deign to touch him with. Which, of late, has been pretty much every last inch of her.

But right now, it's her fists.

Inevitable and pitiless as hailstones, sharp knuckle concussions spreading pain like cracks on a windshield, retribution for the unforgivable

_come on, that's it, put it on me / put it all on me / that's my girl_

that burst the dam of her control and her rage descends on him in jackhammer blows, her torso twisting for added momentum as her dear little fists set meter and cadence for her litany of denial

"I am Not! Your! Girl!"

The fury of her punches snaps his head from side to side. _Oh yeah. Again. Give it me good, Buffy._

"You don't - have a soul! There is nothing - good or clean - in you!"

_More, pet. More. Let it all out. How I love you._

Thud and slam, relentless ferocity. Each blow so hard that he thinks, for the split second between them, that last one surely knocked his head clean off and he simply hasn't dusted yet. Her power is terrible, wondrous, lightning strikes and thunder crashes, the rage of angels. That she sheds it on him, an evil disgusting thing, is a blessing he should not own. He beams at her and she beats him harder, because she doesn't understand.

"You are dead inside! You can't feel anything real! I could never be your girl!"

_Yes. I know. I listened. Did you?_

He imagines she really might kill him this time, and _God_, he's so hard. Part of him wants it, wants this to be the final emphatic flourish to their dance, and he knows he's not the only one. He can smell her as she kneels astride him, her wet heat grinding against his abdomen with every swing, releasing her sweet musk to the air and _fuck_ if he wasn't right about her, as he's always known he was.

_I know what your heart cries out for_

_Poor little lost girl_

Beneath the perfume of her arousal he scents her scraped knuckle, the copper-quicksilver tang of her blood mingling with his own, smeared on her skin. If he had the will to stop her he'd catch hold of her hand and bring it to his lips, drink of their united blood as communion wine to seal his new promise, atonement for the one he'd failed to keep.

And he'll wear her bruises as badges of honor, or accusations and benedictions painted in stark living color across his dead flesh. _Look at me. See what I am, what you've made of me. See what you are. I know you by your deeds._

_death is your art / you make it with your hands day after day_

_you're a creature of the darkness like me_

Slow and viscous as spilled molasses, oblivion steals upon him uninvited and unwelcome, encroaching on the edges of his vision. He struggles against it, desperate to be enough this time, not to fall short again, but everything is fading, slipping away. Her blows feel softer, less substantial, and he wants to weep and pray and rail at her to continue.

_Please, love, please don't be done with me yet -_

But as usual, she does not comprehend his need. Her slight weight suddenly lifts away from his middle and she stands above him, drawing shaky little sobbing breaths. To his blurred kaleidoscope vision she is a backlit smudge of color against the night, her hair a golden halo tilted askew. He can feel her stare upon him, weighted with horror and dismay and contempt. For herself or for him? He hopes it's for him, because it pains her and maybe that makes it, and him, and _them_ real for her, too.

_we have something Buffy / it's not pretty and it's messy but it's real_

His lips move but nothing issues forth; his battered diaphragm spasms as he tries to draw breath to speak. Finally, through broken lips, "You always hurt...the one you love, pet," fractured irony that means _It's all right, don't worry, I don't mind_ in their strange dialect of taloned truth and slaughterhouse passion, but he doubts she hears him because she's turning away. Putting him behind her, like Satan in the wilderness.

She turns away and leaves him there.

_And that's okay too, love._ He reaches for her, tries to reassure her, but all that emerges from his throat is, "Buffy -" and then she is gone.

Moments later, the void claims him for its own, as no one else will.

The decades-familiar imperative, the warning of daybreak, prickles his skin and he struggles to rise. Agony covers him like a blanket; there's not an inch of his body that doesn't hurt at least a little, and most of it hurts a lot.

Except for his hands. Unmarked and whole, not a scratch or a bruise on them.

Slowly, with small excruciating movements, he manages to stand, one hand braced against the alley wall, his bones quaking in their sheath of ruined flesh. His head is a swollen bubble of anguish, ready to burst, and the dirty asphalt beckons like a cushioned bower, tempting him to succumb, to let it all finally end. For a second he considers it.

_No. I've not yet earned it._

His face burns and splinters grind in his jaw as he sets his teeth and wills his legs to move. Pain explodes through his frame with the first step, so intense he nearly passes out. Again, the alley wall is his friend, supporting him as he hitches along, his limping gait an awful parody of his usual swagger.

He stumbles out of the alley and turns for home, navigating as much by scent as by sight. The smallest intake of air stabs icy pencils up through his nose into his brain, and only one of his eyelids can open at all. But he'll get there. He'll mend quickly enough, because he must. To be ready for the next time.

He wonders briefly what sort of encounter that will be, but doesn't dwell on the triviality. Punishment or pleasure or both, it doesn't matter which or in what measures, so long as she keeps coming to him.

What they share is not what he wants, but it's more than he ever thought he'd have. Lust and loathing. Sex and secrets. Violence and veracity. And pain.

Sweet, sacred pain.


End file.
